


Birdsong at Twilight

by shimadagans



Series: Playing Nice [2]
Category: Destiny (Video Games)
Genre: Character Study, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Other, Presumed Dead, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-02
Updated: 2021-01-10
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:47:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27338905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shimadagans/pseuds/shimadagans
Summary: [He dimly registers a body, floating through darkness. His body. His fingers, capped in metal, his legs and arms, limp and scratched and dented. He tries to reach somewhere, anywhere, and finds that he cannot.What is happening? What is this? Where am I?YOU ARE IN LIMBO IN A DATASTREAM. A voice, no, a presence weighs on the back right corner of his mind, as if it has always been there. YOU SOUGHT TO SAVE THE WORLD USING A TOOL I DID NOT THINK YOU CAPABLE OF FULLY UNDERSTANDING, LET ALONE WIELDING. I WAS MISTAKEN, AND YOU HAVE PAID THE PRICE.]Felwinter is presumed dead after the events of Site 6. What if that wasn't the case?
Relationships: Felwinter/Shaxx (Destiny), Guardian/Saint-14 (Destiny)
Series: Playing Nice [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1996237
Comments: 46
Kudos: 93





	1. Wake

As Cyril descends into the Warmind bunker tucked below the lunar surface, it feels...different, somehow. He’s been here several times before in his efforts to assist Rasputin with this and that, but this time it feels more...somber. He’d been summoned here by the Warmind himself, with very little information other than a set of coordinates and scraps of old tech collected from old Vostock Peak. 

“Keep an eye open,” Frost notes, “Power fluctuations occurring throughout the vault.”

Ana Bray adds her two cents, too, over a crackly comm, “From what I can tell, he just wants to talk. No movement detected inside the bunker, hostile or otherwise.”

When Frost disengages the lock on the diamond-shaped hatch, there are no Hive crawling around, like there usually are. Instead, a hologram flickers over the panel that usually houses potential Valkyries--a robed form crowned by a swept-horn helmet, reaching out towards what appears to be a Ghost.

Rasputin’s booming voice bounces off the bunker’s walls. “He’s telling a story,” Ana says, somewhat distantly, “In a time of great prosperity, a tyrant king sent his son to live among the people and learn their ways…”

Rasputin weaves them a tale, sounding strangely more and more affected, and Ana translates it, sounding more and more confused.The next hologram sparks something like sympathy in Cyril, with the same horned figure aiming a bulky shotgun at a leaping frame.

“He was running,” Cyril says, “For a very long time, wasn’t he?” Rasputin makes a sound that reads like acknowledgement, oddly sorrowful for an AI.

When they reach the third projection, Cyril almost reels back, and he hears Ana suck in a low breath on the other end of the line before she starts translating again. The figure looks like he’s being devoured by a curse, or perhaps by a cloud of ravenous insects, and he realizes, quickly, that they’re seeing Rasputin’s account of what happened in the Plaguelands back on Earth, many years ago. 

“That’s SIVA, has to be,” Frost murmurs, “He’s talking about turning SIVA….against the Iron Lords.”

As Rasputin finishes his story--which seems less like a story, now, and more of a confession--Cyril is stricken with something like mourning. That’s what Rasputin is doing, really, voicing regret, grieving for his son.

Before Cyril can do anything ridiculous like pointing out that it was Rasputin who killed his own son, the hatch at the very back of the main room releases with a hiss, and Cyril supposes that’s as much of an invitation to explore further as he’s going to get.

It’s quiet for a long moment as he heads down the revealed staircase and into a narrow passageway. As he touches down after falling through a shaft, Ana’s line crackles again, with a much weaker signal, “Is Rasputin… is he talking about himself? I think the tyrant's son…”

The channel goes dark, and Cyril presses his lips into a thin line behind his helmet.

“This is no coincidence,” Frost says, shining his light down the dark passage and sounding just a tad more on edge, “Whatever he’s trying to show us down here, he doesn’t want anyone else to see it.”

“Why show us, then?” Cyril asks, as they emerge into a much wider space, walking down the narrow, railed walkway in the center of it.

“If I had the answer to that,  _ I’d _ be a Warmind,” Frost mutters.

Crackling orange energy courses over the walls of the space, rushing past them, revealing just how vast it is. Cyril feels very small for a moment as they approach the end of the walkway, then stops short as part of the partform pulls away. A mechanism whirrs and clicks in the floor beneath his boots and he takes several quick, cautious steps back as a hexagonal platform rises from where there was floor just moments ago. He aims his sidearm steady at the box as it angles up and forwards ninety degrees, facing him. Frost darts behind him, spines whirling with apprehension as the box hisses and slides open at the vertical seam.

There’s another scarlet hologram, here, unmistakable in visage and bearing, encased in what appears to be a Warmind-fashioned coffin. A facsimile of Iron Lord Felwinter lays there, clutching a very real shotgun, and with bits and pieces of armor that look old enough to drive a Cryptarch into a frenzy floating around its frame.

Rasputin rumbles something that sounds vaguely like encouragement, and Cyril slowly realizes that  _ this _ must be what the Warmind wanted them to see, or perhaps to have. He’d mentioned physically arming Guardians he found worthy with weapons of his own. He just didn’t expect the process to be so literal, nor so...personal.

As he steps closer to inspect the gun, he realizes it’s  _ large _ \--he’s not sure if it’s even something he’ll be comfortable using. A little flash catches his eye as Frost aims his lightbeam at the weapon, scanning it, a little charm shaped like the sun, strung to the main frame of the gun by a line of faded cord. Nothing happens as he steps forward, save for the hologram flickering, so he takes it as a sign to do what any Guardian does when presented with a mysterious, slightly ominous weapon.

He touches the barrel of the gun, and that’s the last thing he remembers before there’s a blast and a sharp, breaching pain through his middle before his back hits the ground.

  
  


* * *

Everything is dark, and then it’s bright, too bright, like light directly over his head while someone pokes and prods at his frame with interest, like shocks of lightning prickling over metal and carbon-fiber joints. Like red, bright red, his own eyes’ glow reflected back at him in a mockery of salvation, coiling tendrils of doubt, regret, betrayal, grasping at his limbs until he hangs still.

  
  


He dimly registers a body, floating through darkness.  _ His  _ body. His fingers, capped in metal, his legs and arms, limp and scratched and dented. He tries to reach somewhere, anywhere, and finds that he cannot.

**What is happening? What is this? Where am I?**

_ YOU ARE IN LIMBO IN A DATASTREAM.  _ A voice, no, a presence weighs on the back right corner of his mind, as if it has always been there.  _ YOU SOUGHT TO SAVE THE WORLD USING A TOOL I DID NOT THINK YOU CAPABLE OF FULLY UNDERSTANDING, LET ALONE WIELDING. I WAS MISTAKEN, AND YOU HAVE PAID THE PRICE. _

These words do not answer his questions, nor provide any semblance of comfort. Somehow, despite everything in his mind feeling hazy, he gets the distinct feeling that comfort isn’t something he is often afforded.

While he considers, he starts to feel. First, he realizes that he can touch his fingertips together. In the vast space he drifts in, it makes a little muted clicking sound. He discovers this sound both pleases and irritates him. He continues to do it.

**Who are you?** He asks, then:  **Who am I?**

_ I AM YOUR FATHER,  _ the presence responds, and then, with something like regret in its tone,  _ AND YOU WERE MY SON. _

The words dredge something up from his interior, like an anchor being pulled from the depths.

He remembers running, being chased across every type of terrain he can think of, then, the biting wind of a narrow bridge between a jagged, split peak. He recalls the distant warmth of a campfire, and an awful metal screech jabs through his mind. Then, subtle sparks of electricity dancing along his spine, a warmth of a different kind. There’s a flash of that bright, bright red again, and he realizes, looking at what he assumes are his own hands, that the same color lines his arms. 

_ IT IS COMING BACK TO YOU NOW,  _ the presence notes, his father, he supposes. The word leaves a bitter taste at the back of his throat.  _ I HAVE KEPT YOU HERE, SAFE. IT IS NOW TIME FOR YOU TO GO ONCE AGAIN. YOUR REWARD FOR YOUR TRIBULATIONS. _

**Go? Go where?!** He can feel  _ something _ pulling at his form, no, his full  _ being _ . An unignorable magnetic force, a yank at every bit of him he can feel. 

_ REACTIVATING PROTOCOL: SIDDHARTHA GOLEM. _

* * *

  
  
  


Felwinter turns on his eyes.

Someone is reaching for his gun, so he does what any reasonable person would do.

He shoots them.

The person’s back hits the metal catwalk behind them with a muted  _ thud _ and while Felwinter is debating on whether to pump another round into them, a little light--must be their Ghost, of course--hovers in front of him. It makes an affronted noise at him before whirling around to bathe the fallen figure’s body in light--in  _ Light _ . 

The figure on the ground stirs, and Felwinter watches with both interest and vague recollection as the hole he’d just blown in the person’s side neatly knits itself back together. 

“That was rather uncalled for,” the figure speaks, sitting up slowly, “I just wanted to  _ look _ at it, really.”

The figure--a Warlock, he realizes--slowly gets to his feet, and Felwinter keeps the shotgun aimed squarely at him the whole time.

“Quite a punch that thing’s got,” the Warlock takes a careful step forward and Felwinter makes a show of leveling his gun at him, a warning. The Warlock puts his hands up in a show of peace, stopping where he is, “Right, okay, personal space.”

“Who are you? Where are we?” Felwinter demands, watching the other Lightbearer carefully. His body language seems open enough; shoulders raised in apprehension, keeping his weight in the balls of his feet should he need to move quickly.

“I’m Cyril,” he says, waving his fingers towards himself, then to his Ghost, floating at his side, “And this is Frost. We’re in a Warmind bunker on the Moon.”

Felwinter almost lowers his gun in shock, “On the  _ Moon _ ?” 

“Ah, right,” Cyril seems to still be eyeing the Lie, giving Felwinter a wide berth as he edges past him on the walkway, “Probably didn’t do much interplanetary travel back in the Dark Age, huh?”

“Interplanet--stop moving,” he says, and the other Warlock does no such thing, moving past him quickly to examine the control panels situated behind the raised platform.

“This may be hard to believe,” Cyril says, carefully, as he messes with some of the switches on the panel, “But you’ve been…gone, you’ve been gone for a very,  _ very _ long time, and a lot of things have changed.”

Felwinter nearly snorts at that--there’s no way this other Lightbearer is speaking the truth. Sure, the place has the ominous look and feel of a Warmind bunker, but the Moon? Laughable, really. And time travel? Ludicrous. He taps the neurolink to tell Felspring to run diagnostics on him and to bring their ship around nearby and--

Nothing.

He holds out his hand, how he usually does on the rare occasion when he wants her out in the open, and nothing happens. 

**Felspring? If I’ve done something to anger you, I apologize, but this is not the time to be playing tricks.**

**Felspring? Felspring!**

“Where’s your Ghost?” Cyril slides right up next to him, and Felwinter scrambles to aim the Lie at him again.

“She’s...around,” Felwinter tries for, but Cyril’s own Ghost is scanning him and the area around him already, sighing and shaking its form at the other Warlock, “No signs of active Ghosts nearby.”

“Maybe she’s still in your little box?” Cyril asks, gesturing to the contraption behind him. Felwinter turns back around, keeping the other Warlock in his periphery, to find something remarkably like a sarcophagus, which he assumes he stepped out of when this nosy  _ intruder _ tried to take his gun. 

He  _ does _ put down the gun when he spots a dusty, jagged little thing and he rushes to cradle it-- _ her _ \--in his hands.

Felspring doesn’t move a single inch, no quips, no reprimands. Her display remains stubbornly blank and dark, and he traces the edge of her too-still shell with one finger before carefully putting her back on top of the box.

Then, he pulls a knife from the sheath on his legs and leaps at this  _ killer _ .

“Ack, hold on--” the Warlock holds him at bay, if barely, back bending over the console he was shadowing as Felwinter presses him with his full weight, “Hold on! I can guess what you’re thinking, and  _ no _ , I didn’t kill your Ghost! She was tucked into that box with you, and I’m sure Rasputin knows more about that than  _ I _ do!”

Felwinter pauses at that, though the knife stays drawn, “Rasputin, you say?”

“Yes, it’s  _ his _ bunker we’re in after all,” Cyril replies, and Felwinter can’t read his expression through his helmet, but he sounds genuine. He releases him, and Cyril sags against the console as he turns to examine their surroundings more closely. There’s a dim light shining at the back of the space, and Felwinter turns smartly towards it, collecting both his gun and his Ghost on the way. After a moment, he hears Cyril follow him, carefully.

“This part of the bunker is old, really old,” he hears the other’s Ghost murmur, scanning here and there. He turns his attention to the spherical shell at the very back of the room, all sorts of wires and sensors wound in and around it. It’s printed with a symbol, stark red on off-white. 

“An old safety protocol AI, used to monitor various systems for emergencies,” he finds himself saying, peering over the railing at the casing. For a moment, he wonders how he knows, but it feels...almost intrinsic.

Cyril comes up next to him, giving him plenty of space, and his Ghost floats over to scan the casing itself, making a low, whistling sound, “He’s right. Seems like this has been here since the days of the lunar colonies. Supposedly, Clovis Bray took this and made it into a system-wide defense program.”

“Not by himself,” Felwinter shakes his head ruefully, and he feels both of them  _ look _ at him. He finds that he hates it, so he looks straight ahead, “Rasputin was given tools, and he fashioned himself an armory, defenses.”

**Cowardice** , he thinks to himself,  **Cowardice and tyranny.**

“So…” Cyril leans against the railing, looking sidelong at him, “He was, er, telling us a story, before you...arrived. Something about a tyrant and his son?”

Felwinter feels his jaw clench against his will and he tightens his grip on his gun, “Whatever asinine questions about this subject that you may have churning around, you will find your answers elsewhere. I am not some  _ object _ to be  _ examined _ .”

“Understood,” Cyril says, easily enough that Felwinter is a bit startled, “I wouldn’t want to be badgered like that after such a long nap.”

“Unfortunately, the Vanguard isn’t going to be as easy going about this,” Cyril’s Ghost notes, seemingly nodding at Felwinter, “We weren’t kidding; it’s been a long time since you were last around. They’re going to have….questions.”

“How long?” Felwinter studies the cord wound around his gun quite intently.

Cyril and his Ghost exchange a look, “Several centuries, give or take, since the last time anyone saw you.”

Felwinter balks, he can’t help it.

“You expect me to believe that I’ve been in a  _ coffin _ for several hundred years? On the Moon, no less. And the only thing that seems to have happened is that my Ghost seems unresponsive.”

“That’s--” Cyril sighs and reaches up to his helmet, brushing his hand over the top of it in a gesture that seems habitual, “Well, I don’t expect you to believe anything until you see proof, if the stories about you are true.”

“There are  _ stories _ about me?” Felwinter asks, made incredulous by the use of ‘stories’ instead of ‘nasty rumors’.

Cyril’s Ghost bobs in place, “Yes. You and the Iron Lords...you’re the stuff of legends, the Guardians before there were really Guardians.”

Felwinter sombers a bit at that, distant, sharp memories awash in his mind, “The others, they didn’t survive, did they.”

Cyril and his Ghost exchange another glance, “No, only Saladin and Efrideet, that we know of. And now you, if Rasputin isn’t flooding this bunker with hallucinogens.”

“I wouldn’t put it past him,” Felwinter mutters, turning Felspring’s shell over in his hands, careful, a million thoughts whirling through his head. Without his Ghost, he can’t access the Light, and without the Light, what is he? A puppet on cut strings? Obsolescence? He can’t access any storage, no vehicles, no--

“Listen,” Cyril says, and Felwinter has to force himself not to be visibly startled, “I bet you’ve got a bunch of questions, and while I  _ love _ answering questions--”

“If you let him, he’ll talk forever,” Frost cuts in.

“--Rude! Anyway, I don’t think I’ll be able to answer all the questions you have. But there are people back in the City that probably could.”

“I don’t often bank on ‘probably’,” Felwinter replies, studying Cyril’s helmet like it might reveal his true motives, “And how do you plan on getting both of us back there?”

  
  


Cyril shrugs at that and makes a vague upwards gesture, “Pretty sure my ship can fit both of us. Wait,” he tilts his head at Felwinter, “Have you ever actually  _ been _ to the City?”

“No more questions,” Felwinter says, his mind made up as he brushes past Cyril back down the walkway, towards the console controls. The display lights up for him and it feels like sneaking back into the observatory after doing something abhorrent. He flicks through a few screens and, yes, it appears the other Lightbearer isn’t lying, the location flickering on the ancient screen says that they certainly are on the singular moon in Earth’s orbit.

“Comms are still down,” Frost notes, and he hears Cyril breath out a dry laugh, “Maybe that’s for the best. Don’t know if it’s a good idea to let our favorite cryptolinguist know exactly what we found down here.”

Felwinter tunes their babbling out and focuses on tracing the source of the network keeping this bunker online.

“I will go to Hellas Basin,” he says, aloud, and both Warlock and Ghost wheel to look at him, “...Where is Hellas Basin?”

“On Mars,” Frost says, just as Cyril says, “Why the hell do you want to go to Hellas Basin?”

“Rasputin is there,” he says, and then, a touch frustrated when neither of them seem to follow his train of logic, “If anyone knows how to return my Ghost to me, it will be him.”

Frost and his Guardian exchange a longer look, and by the way Cyril gestures, Felwinter would guess they’re arguing.

“The Tower first,” Cyril eventually offers, sighing, “But we should try to keep a low profile.”

“As if you can  _ ever _ manage that,” Frost sniffs.

They lead him out of the bunker and through decrepit, disgusting halls. When he questions the Warlock on it, Cyril just flaps a hand dismissively and says, “Hive gunk,” as if that’s supposed to clear anything up for him.

It doesn’t.

When they emerge from the massive final hatch, Felwinter almost chokes on nothing--if he needed any more assurance they were not on Earth, this would’ve done it. The surface they walk on is dusty, barren, littered with the skeletal remains of structures whose purpose he can only guess at. He doesn’t have long to look before Frost is bringing Cyril’s jumpship around--an ostentatious thing, cut in gold and steel and pulsating white wires--and he finds himself aboard.

The cabin is small, but large enough that he doesn’t feel too crowded as Cyril ducks his way into the pilot’s seat. He starts chattering away to someone apparently named ‘Ana’ over his comms unit and Felwinter decides to keep quiet, lest he draw unwanted attention. The other Warlock pulls his helmet over his head in what seems like exasperation as he keeps talking, glancing over at Felwinter with apologetic, glowing green eyes. Felwinter finds himself surprised that the man who’d stumbled upon the bunker isn’t quite human, but then again, that’s what he gets for making assumptions.

He feels...strange. He has a million questions, and a million more questions he doesn’t even know if there are answers for.

**Why am I here? Why was I spared, or saved? What motive does Rasputin have?**

“Hey,” Cyril calls over the back of his seat, over the quiet din of space travel, “Just realized, you probably don’t have a place to stay in the City, so, uh. Consider this an offer to crash with me until we figure something out.”

Felwinter finds himself thinking longingly of  _ his _ observatory, on  _ his  _ peak, wondering if any of that still exists. He thinks of kindness, of traps, of the hostility of a caged animal.

“Alright,” he replies, instead of ruminating on his melancholy aloud, “...that would be appreciated.”

  
  


* * *

As the ship circles around to a landing bay, Felwinter can’t stop  _ looking _ . There is something to see everywhere he looks, something to think about, to digest. Cyril muffles a laugh and Felwinter chooses not to comment on it.

“Normally, I’d just hop out in the plaza, but,” Cyril remarks, walking rather quickly, “Coming through the hangar like this might be lower-key, as long as Saint is busy--”

“Guardian!” a voice booms in their general direction, from a ship absolutely dripping with violet ribbons, and Cyril stops short, looking vaguely sheepish.

“Saint,” he returns, nodding Felwinter towards the owner of the voice. The name sounds familiar to him, but he can’t quite put his finger on why as they approach.

He watches with dim surprise as the Warlock he’d barely just met gets lifted completely off his feet by a figure in full armor and a rather loud helmet, accented with the same purple as the ribbons on the ship behind him, “Cyril! It is good to see you.”

“Saint, it’s barely been a day,” Cyril mumbles, looking a bit flushed. Felwinter tilts his head at the display, and the other Warlock clears his throat as this ‘Saint’ person sets him down and turns to look Felwinter over. He feels himself consciously straighten up as he’s appraised.

“Who is your friend?” Saint asks, though it’s directed more at him than at Cyril, though before he can answer, Saint shakes his head, “Ah, sorry, it is rude to ask one’s name before introducing myself. I am Saint-14.”

Now, it is clearer to him. This is the man who deferred his position to Osiris, leaving on a personal quest to eradicate the Fallen across the system. Arguably foolish.

Cyril clears his throat, stepping to Felwinter’s side, and though the action makes him stiffen in discomfort, he watches Cyril answer for him, “This is...a friend of mine, newly-Risen. Hasn’t quite decided on a name yet, but I figured it’d be nice for him to get acquainted with the Tower.”

Felwinter tries not to balk at this bold-faced lie, but Saint-14 seems to swallow it down easily, “Ah! Well-met then, friend. You’re very lucky it was this particular Guardian who found you!” He reaches for Felwinter’s hand and clasps it between his own two much larger ones for just a moment, and even without his Ghost to help he  _ knows _ this particular Lightbearer is restraining his strength, “Cyril is the pride of the Vanguard, and my own personal saviour. Sometime, you must stop by so you can hear about all his victories--”

“Maybe another time, Saint,” Cyril manages with a little cough, and Felwinter definitely isn’t imagining the flush on his face, now, “We should be going, right?”

Felwinter nods, not sure if he’ll be able to keep an even tone if he speaks, and the big purple man waves them off.

“What was that all about?” Felwinter asks as soon as they’re out of earshot, and Cyril sniffs and looks determinedly straight ahead, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Frost audibly snorts and darts out of Cyril’s range when he reaches to swat at him. The image invokes a sense of nostalgia in Felwinter’s chassis. 

“Okay, that could’ve gone worse,” Cyril mutters as they climb a staircase away from the noise of the hangar, “Just. Follow my lead. Honestly, don’t take this the wrong way, but it’ll be best if you don’t talk too much.”

“Is there a right way to take that?” Felwinter wonders, “Apparently, you are a bit of a high-profile figure yourself.”

“It’s just that,” Cyril runs a hand through his light hair, somehow not disturbing the delicate bun at the top, “I don’t know who will recognize you if you speak, and if you don’t want to be dragged into a roundtable with the whole Consensus, or worse,” he shudders, “The Praxic order, it might be best to fly under the radar for a while.”

“Are there still people around from several centuries ago?” Felwinter asks, and the other Warlock nods, “Semi-immortal and all that.”

They emerge from the long staircase into an open-air pavilion, and he spots--

The Traveler.

He’s never been this close to it. Has it always looked so...fractured?

“Long story,” Cyril says, following his gaze, “But it woke up pretty recently.”

Felwinter shakes away the awe and tries to focus, but there is just...so much going on.

There are many more people here, many also in full armor. Despite his reluctance to be around so many people,  _ especially  _ without his Ghost handy, he finds a certain amount of beauty in the sight. It’s quite a spectacle, some of the Lightbearers suited up in armor and drapings that practically glow with bright, venomous coloring. Felwinter touches the side of his helmet, “This helmet, it is...quite recognizable, should I try to find another?”

“No need,” Cyril snorts, and he gestures to a section of stalls set up to the side, one armed by a frame handing a package to another Lightbearer and--

“Why are they wearing  _ my _ helm?” Felwinter asks aloud, and Cyril motions at him discouragingly to keep it down.

“You’re a pretty-well known figure in history,” Frost notes with a shred of amusement, hovering by his head, “The Guardians of today sometimes honor those in the past by wearing armor fashioned in their image, or by using replica weapons. Lord Saladin even runs a combat tournament that offers weapons named after Iron Lords as rewards.”

“Sentimental fool,” Felwinter says, looking around at all the people. Cyril ushers him through the plaza quickly, eyes trained on a short, spiral staircase strung around a tree and down another hallway. As they pass what appears to be a stall for a gunsmith, he  _ swears _ he hears a voice he recognizes, but then they’re walking down the staircase and away.

“Sorry,” he says, as they pass a frame sweeping up a corner, “Didn’t want to get flagged down by Zavala. Guy’s got a BS detector more sensitive than a tripmine grenade.”

Felwinter nods as though these words make much sense to him, but this name, too, sticks in his mind, along with a blurry face, “Zavala...this person is a Titan, yes? An Awoken man?”

“Oh,” Cyril turns a corner and fixes him with a furrowed-brow look, “Yeah, actually. He’s the Titan Vanguard, and the Vanguard Commander. Do you know him?”

“In a way,” Felwinter offers in return, remembering a cold night and a warm presence by his side. He pushes those thoughts away as they come out into another open air space, a market of sorts. There’s a shop with a neon sign affixed to its side that Felwinter assumes offers food, if his olfactory sensors are correctly calibrated. A bit further down is a balcony on which a hooded figure stands, feeding a large, predatory bird. Another figure stands among piles and piles of books and various equipment, and Cyril waves to her as they pass.

“That’s Ikora Rey,” he murmurs, “Warlock Vanguard. Kind of my boss, I guess? Best not to linger, she  _ will  _ ask questions.”

Another name he vaguely recognizes, “Yes...a student of Osiris,” then he pauses, feeling weighed down by dread, “If this...Zavala is the Commander, and Ikora is the Warlock Vanguard, what of Osiris?”

“Right,” Cyril sighs, rubbing his forehead, “You wouldn’t have been here for that. He got exiled forever ago. He resurfaced recently, and I’ve been...working with him, too.”

While Felwinter is processing this (it seems as if it was just yesterday that Osiris had been given the weight of authority, also why did Cyril hesitate like that?), Cyril peeks sidelong at him, “Osiris was a student of yours, wasn’t he? I can’t imagine him listening to anyone like that.”

“He barely listened to me, sometimes. Asked the strangest questions,” Felwinter notes, wryly, and Cyril smothers a laugh in his hand as they head towards a door with a keypad. Frost whizzes forward to interact with the device, and the door slides open smoothly to reveal a hallway leading to a huge elevator.

“This’ll get us down to the City proper,” Cyril says, pointing towards one of the clear panels, and Felwinter really  _ looks _ at the City for the first time.

It’s a sprawling metropolis, a far cry from the unfinished walls he remembers from his sparse visits an era ago. There are pinpricks of light from every building, too many to easily count, even from the sections that look like they’re under construction.

“Pretty sight, huh?” Cyril asks, leaning back against the railing of the elevator as it brings them down, “Usually I just hop over the railing in the plaza and fall until I get in landing range, but I  _ do _ miss the view that way.”

Felwinter nods slowly, a little jolted by his inability to conflate what he knows and what he’s now seeing. That feeling lingers even as they disembark and start walking again.

There are fewer Lightbearers down here, though still plenty of people around. Felwinter sticks close to Cyril, keeping pace with the other’s quick stride. It’s only a short time before he peels off the main street and down an alley, then up a staircase to a door that Frost unlocks for them.

“It’s not much, but you’re welcome to it,” Cyril says, leading him into a fairly spacious loft. There’s an open space with a kitchen and what appears to be a lounge, and a hallway that leads further back. When Felwinter lingers at the doorway, Cyril snorts and waves him towards the comfortable looking armchairs in the lounge, “You can sit, y’know. I’ll be right back, I should grab some stuff if we’re heading to Mars next.”

“We?” Felwinter asks, but he doesn’t get an answer as Cyril heads further into the apartment, so he sits. The chair is just as comfortable as it looks, and he sinks into it with a low hum. The decor of the place is a bit....showy. The rug under his feet is a swirl of jewel tones, and there are so many things strung from the ceiling that it’s a bit hard to pick individual objects out.

He’s debating the merits of the wall color when Cyril re-emerges, in completely different armor. This set seems thicker, heavier, the robes layered with pockets and pouches. He doesn’t get a chance to ask about the strange floating structures around his knees before Cyril settles in the chair across from him, steepling his fingers.

“So, Hellas Basin, Mars,” he says, suddenly all business, and Felwinter finds himself drawn in, “There’s a lot of Hive there. And Cabal. Even for Guardians, it’s a pretty dangerous place for an off-planet jaunt, and, no offense, no matter how handy you are with your special shotgun, I’m not comfortable going there if it’s just the two of us.”

Felwinter bristles, not at all a fan of being patronized like this, “I did  _ not _ ask for your assistance. I will be going whether or not it is ‘dangerous’.”

“You’re not asking for it, but the plain fact is that if you go, you will likely die before getting more than a few steps towards Rasputin’s core,” Frost says, shimmering back into existence above the low table, “And then, your body will get scavenged for parts. Not a great way to go.”

“We were thinking,” Cyril says, eyeing his Ghost, “We can ask maybe one more person to come along with us, so we’ve got better coverage and a better shot of getting you close enough to talk to him. Maybe someone I’ve worked with before--”

“I will not travel there with anyone I do not already know,” Felwinter cuts across him, dread rising in him again, “The fact that you know anything about my...situation is already too much.”

Cyril’s shoulders sag, and he rubs at the side of his face, visibly frustrated, “Who do you even know who’s still around?”

“I am not going through every person I know just for you to tell me they are dead,” he states, cold, and Cyril stiffens, lips pressed into a thin line.

Frost nudges his Guardian’s arm, then floats slowly over to Felwinter, “Listen, I can only imagine how it feels to not have your Ghost with you. How about we take another walk around the Tower and see if you spot anyone you know? If not, we’ll figure out another way to get you an audience with Rasputin.”

Felwinter considers. Without Felspring, he has no access to any of his belongings beyond the armor he’s wearing and the gun he was clutching, so that means no traveling using vehicles of his own. He’s sure the same thought has occurred to the Warlock across from him.

“Why are you offering to help?” he asks, studying Cyril’s face for any sign of ulterior motive, “We met only a few hours ago, and now you want to assist me in retrieving my Ghost.”

Cyril studies him right back, though he’s sure there’s not much to be discerned through his helmet, “I don’t like to look the other way when someone needs help, and though maybe you don’t think you do, you need it.”

Felwinter looks him over for a moment longer and, to his despair, he finds no hint of a lie in the other’s features. 

“Very well,” he allows, “We can go on a walk.”

  
  


* * *

  
  


They climb the spiral staircase back up to the plaza from before, and Felwinter starts looking around immediately.

“It’s a shame Saladin’s not here this week,” Cyril murmurs, following Felwinter this time instead of the other way around, “You knew him, right?”

“Sometimes I wished I didn’t,” Felwinter replies. There are fewer Lightbearers here than earlier, but the ones that dash across the courtyard or dance right in the middle of it are no less flashy. The Titan Cyril had pointed out earlier stands facing the City at the end of a platform, and Felwinter shakes his head--he’d barely met the man before, and asking the head of the Vanguard would provoke too many questions. The gunsmith manning the stall to their immediate right mutters something to himself and a single glance at his mechanical face tells Felwinter that he’s never met this person in his life. The postal frame across the way and the Awoken woman running the stall next them give Felwinter no inkling of recollection, either, and he’s about ready to tell Cyril to give up when that voice from before cuts across the general noise of the plaza.

“--hang on, I need to handle this... What do you think heavy ammo available means Guardian? TELL ME! Because I don't think you get it!”

Felwinter knows that voice. He’d know that voice anywhere, anytime.

He darts around the corner, past the terminals on the wall to his right, and--

Shaxx.

He’s facing slightly away from him, hands on a console as he seemingly watches one of several monitors fixed to the wall. His armor looks a little different, a bit more worn, and he’s missing a horn on the side of his helmet, but it couldn’t be anyone but him. Felwinter feels his entire body lock up in shock, and he doesn’t, can’t register anything else but who he sees before him,  _ alive _ .

**Of course he’s alive,** he tells himself, feeling too many things, among them pride, relief,  _ pain _ ,  **There isn’t a single thing that could match him.**

He only knows Cyril catches up to him when the other Warlock physically tugs him to the side, and Felwinter, as shocked as he is, doesn’t fight him as the other hisses at him.

“What are you doing?” he says, low as he pulls Felwinter back around the corner, “Zavala is standing literally right over there!”

Felwinter feels his words getting lost on the way to his vocalizer, so he just shakes his head. His hands are shaking.

“I know Shaxx is loud and all, but--hey, are you alright?” Cyril finally notices he’s not all there and, after glancing around, he ushers him further down the hallway.

“Can I take your helmet off?” Cyril asks, sounding more and more worried, and when Felwinter notes that nobody else is around, he nods.

When fresh air hits his face, he finds himself sliding down the wall, his back to a corner as Cyril and Frost both fret over him.

“He’s alive,” he croaks, and Cyril pauses, expression thoughtful for a moment.

“Who, Shaxx? Yeah, he’s been around forever, what do--Oh.  _ Oh, _ do you know him?”

Felwinter lets out a weak laugh of disbelief, “Do I know him? Do  _ I _ know  _ him _ ?” Cyril hands him his helmet and squats next to him, and he grips the edges of it to try to ground himself, “He, Shaxx is--was, he was my--”

He thinks of stone hallways, of countless spars. Of a crackling fireplace and spirited company. Of lightning coursing through his very soul. Of a wave of red and dread and death and regret.

**My** **_heart_ ** **.**

Cyril carefully reaches out to pat his shoulder, then hoists himself up to offer him a hand up, “Well, that’s….good, I suppose?” He looks unsure, and Felwinter can’t blame him, based on his reaction. His mind is racing, again, though now his thoughts center on a certain Warlord: how has he fared? What has he been doing? Did he...mourn him?

“So, all things considered, Shaxx isn’t a bad option,” Cyril notes, and Frost bobs in agreement next to him, “He and Ana know each other, I think, so that might help…”

The reality that Shaxx almost definitely believes him to be dead comes crashing down around him, and his knees nearly buckle again. Cyril steadies him, carefully, and then releases him once he’s sure he’s steady.

“That’s easy enough, we just have to find a way to ask him to join us without him attracting too much attention,” Cyril continues, looking out at the courtyard, “He’s almost always moderating Crucible stuff, though, and he’s not exactly subtle…”

“He’s still running that combat program?” Felwinter asks, when he’s sure he’s got his voice under control. He feels a phantom of begrudging embarrassment at his reaction to just  _ seeing _ the man. Maybe death has made him more vulnerable to emotion.

“Yes, I think he’s been doing that since the City started being built,” Frost supplies, and Felwinter continues to find it odd that someone else’s Ghost is talking to him so easily and readily.

Felwinter thinks for a moment before deciding, “Then it is simple. We will go into his Crucible and compete, then we have a viable excuse for a conversation.”

Cyril pales visibly next to him, “What? We don’t really need a reason to just go talk to him. Plus, I don’t think it’s a good idea to go into a live-fire combat drill without the means to resurrect. Real intense Crucible players don’t hold anything back out there.”

Felwinter just snorts at him, almost haughty, “It is mostly played in teams against other Lightbearers, yes?” And when Cyril nods, slowly, eyebrows raised, “It is not me you will have to worry about.”

  
  
  


* * *

It takes a fair amount of convincing to get Cyril to agree to register them for a Crucible match--convincing meaning telling the other Warlock in no uncertain terms he will not be stopped. Cyril relents with the promise that they will stick close together.

Felwinter eyes the terrain of the map, a place called ‘Bannerfall’ as they’re dropped in, and Shaxx’s voice comes over the comms: “Control.”

“There’s still time to back out,” Cyril notes, with Frost tucked safely away in his cosmic backpack.

“Who’s backing out?” Felwinter taunts him, and Cyril sighs before securing his helmet.

He’d insisted on lending Felwinter at least two other weapons from his admittedly impressive arsenal before they signed up, sounding every step of the way as if he was going to regret this.

Felwinter knows he won’t, and he doesn’t plan on using anything but his mind and the Lie.

As soon as the match starts, he’s off, rounding a corner into a closed off room. Cyril follows at his heels and he snorts at him, cocking his shotgun, “You don’t need to watch over me.”

“Do you even have a radar?” Cyril retorts, and the other Lightbearer with them looks between the two of them with measured apprehension before darting off.

“Who says I need a radar?” Felwinter asks, climbing up the staircase and pausing at the high entryway, “Watch.”

They stay for a few moments before there are heavy, fast footsteps down the hall, and Felwinter raises his gun just in time to catch an enemy Titan off guard, downing them in a single shot.

“Fool,” Felwinter snorts, then he’s whirling back out into open space, keepings his head low. Cyril curses and ducks out after him, taking aim at a Hunter perched on high with his bow.

It goes on for a while much like that, with Felwinter darting into small spaces with enemies and coming out relatively unscathed, and Cyril taking out foes from afar, keeping both of their shields up and vitality up with a well-placed rift every now and then. At one point, Felwinter slides into a room with nearly the entire enemy team in it, but before he can even register panic as an emotion, Cyril yells “DUCK!” from behind him, and Felwinter does just that in time to watch a beam of pure Arc shoot right over his head and sweep across all four Lightbearers in the room. “Incredible!” Shaxx shouts over their comms, and Felwinter almost smiles.

He’s starting to see the merit behind Saint’s enthusiasm about this particular Warlock.

Several minutes later, he’s counting his bullets when Shaxx’s voice rings out again, “I’m calling it.”

“Mercy rule,” Cyril explains, knocking another arrow next to him, then ducking into the adjoining hallway to shoot, “Didn’t think we were doing  _ that _ well, but…”

“Neither of us has been downed once,” Felwinter retorts, perhaps a little smug as Shaxx counts them down.

“Yeah, you’re welcome,” Cyril says, elbowing him. Felwinter finds himself less irritated than he could be.

Felwinter is still riding the high of pseudo-adrenaline as they walk up to Shaxx’s post under the guise of turning in bounties, and he feels...emboldened, somehow. He is here, now. What else does he have to lose?

He ignores the little part of his mind that says he hasn’t yet lost Shaxx and steps forward with Cyril when Shaxx beckons them closer.

“Wonderful work, as always,” Shaxx says, nodding at Cyril as they approach, clapping his hands together. Felwinter’s eyes follow the movement unbidden. “It’s good to know you still take time to sharpen your skills.”

Shaxx turns to him, then, “And you even brought a friend along this time!” Felwinter stiffens, and Cyril shifts next to him, uneasy, too obvious. How did they think this was going to work?

“Actually, I don’t believe I’ve seen you in my Crucible before. Quite impressive, then, to do so well on your first go-around.” He motions to Felwinter’s helm, sounding almost bitter somehow, “You must be a big fan of the Iron Lords. Strong to the very end, all of them.”

He can’t find the words he wants to say now, face to face with the man who has seen him at his very worst. Felwinter tries to reign himself and his rising emotions back in, turning to look at Cyril, who motions jerkily towards him, then towards Shaxx. Felwinter shakes his head quickly, motioning away, turning his back to Shaxx fully.

“You—” Shaxx starts from behind him, the words getting audibly stuck in his throat. Felwinter turns back to face him, full of dread and hope and fear, “Where did you get that gun?”

He distantly feels his fingers twitch at his sides as Cyril coughs next to him, trying to weave a lie believable enough to avoid furthering questioning. His poker face is terrible, though--he fidgets with the edge of his robe as he talks, and Felwinter can practically feel Shaxx’s patience waning nearby.

“Right,” Shaxx says, and Felwinter  _ knows _ he doesn’t believe a word he’s hearing, “Guardian, you may want to leave the lying to other people. It doesn’t suit you.”

It’s too much.

“Enough, Guardian,” he surprises himself, managing to keep his tone mostly even. 

He turns to face Shaxx again, and the Warlord is all on edge. Felwinter laments for a moment that he may be the cause of it as he retrieves the Lie from his back. 

He looks over his own gun for a moment, thinking over his words, “I  _ made _ this gun. It has always belonged to me.” It was the first thing he made entirely with his own hands, a comforting weight against any manner of attack, his first and last resort in many a fight.

When he looks up, Shaxx is looking right at the gun, at the charm he had strung to the frame with his own hands many, many years ago. When Shaxx looks at his helm, instead, he puts the Lie on his back again and tries not to fidget under the intense stare he’s sure he’s receiving from under the familiar helmet. He has to actively restrain himself from reaching out to do  _ something _ , anything, when Shaxx takes the tiniest step forward, and all of the tension in him flies to a point--

“...Winter?”

“Shaxx,” he barely manages, and it feels like coming home.


	2. Fair

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [“It’s you, I can hardly believe it’s you,” Shaxx says, somewhere above his head, and Felwinter still can’t make sense of anything, but this--with his head tucked against Shaxx’s shoulder and his whole frame encompassed in his arms--feels more right than anything else has today.]
> 
> After several centuries spent lost, Felwinter finds that many things have changed.  
> Some things have also stayed just the same.

The Tower, the City--no, the whole  _ world _ slows to a standstill around them.

For a long moment, it’s just the two of them, an unstoppable force and an immovable object. Shaxx reaches slowly, carefully towards Felwinter’s hand, as if he’s afraid he’ll spook him. For this long moment, Felwinter can’t even consider their setting nor the other people still around them, as filled with relief and grief as he is. Shaxx is here,  _ he _ is here, they’re both alive and (seemingly, for the most part) well.

The reverie is broken when Cyril clears his throat somewhere behind them, speaking low, “Hey, guys, I’m sure you would  _ love _ to catch up, but there’s a queue of Crucible diehards behind me and we’re about fifteen seconds from making a scene.”

By the way Shaxx tilts his helmet just slightly, Felwinter can tell he’s looking over his shoulder, and by the way he stands up straighter all of sudden, Felwinter assumes Shaxx was just as lost as he was for a moment.

“Right,” the Titan clears his throat, a somewhat nervous tick that makes the inner workings Felwinter has instead of a heart squeeze almost painfully, and Shaxx takes a step back that seems like a leap across a canyon for how far away he suddenly feels. “I...have to stay at my post for now,” Shaxx says, sounding very much like he’d rather not, “Later, though, will you come see me later?” When Felwinter nods mutely, not sure if his voice will work to his liking, Shaxx lets out a breath, “Good, I’ll have Puck send your Ghost the address--”

He must see the way Felwinter stiffens, even though he tries to reign it in, because he steps close again, as if to comfort him, somehow.

“You can send that to my Ghost instead!” Cyril provides, voice full of false cheer, very obviously trying to cover for them by making more of a scene than they are, “I’ll make sure everything goes smoothly!” There’s a grumble from somewhere behind them, and this time Felwinter takes the step back, fixing Shaxx with one last look from behind his helmet, another nod, “Later it is.”

Felwinter lets himself be gently steered away from the station Shaxx has set up for himself, though it’s more like coaxing then anything else, as busy as his mind is now. “That went well,” Cyril says, and he can’t tell if the other Warlock is being sardonic or not, for once.

The rest of the day flies by in a whirl of color and noise; Cyril insists on giving Felwinter a proper tour of the parts of the City he likes best, gardens and patios and rooftops, and as they wind their way through the streets and alleys, Felwinter finds himself begrudgingly answering the few questions Cyril shoots his way. They’re harmless little things: “Did they have food like this back then?” or “Have you ever seen flowers like this?”, the other man clearly going to great lengths to avoid anything he thinks might upset him.

Normally, Felwinter would be...offended, at being treated like he’s delicate, but right now he’s just  _ tired _ . He keeps catching himself asking questions to the empty space in his head where Felspring usually stays and then, the weight of her lifeless shell tucked into his robes grows ever-heavier.

Eventually, Cyril brings him back up to where he vaguely remembers there being more Lightbearers milling around, an area Cyril explains is a more popular place to live for Guardians who want spaces of their own. Felwinter feels a weak tug of nostalgia for his home atop the peak, but before he can wonder too much about the state of it now, Cyril stops in front of a building a ways off from most of the others on this particular street with a low whistle, waving to one of the two frames stationed just outside of it.

“Never actually seen where Shaxx lives, but this looks like the place,” he offers when Felwinter turns to tilt his head at him, “Makes sense he’d get a place to himself, a little off the beaten path, in a quieter part of town.”

Questions bubble up in his throat:  **Do most people not live alone?** and  **Has Shaxx always lived alone?** chief among them, but he swallows them down and nods instead, “...Thank you for showing me.”

Still, Cyril lingers after what was a clear dismissal, and Felwinter is half a second from telling him to spit it out before the other Warlock clears his throat, “Depending on...how things go, with you two, that offer to crash at my place is still on the table.” When Felwinter just stares at him, he tacks on, “Really! I’ve got a spare room and, no offense, I don’t think you had plans on where to stay just yet, based on everything that happened today.”

Suddenly, Felwinter feels  _ exhausted _ . Usually, he’s  _ quite _ on top of planning, however…

Not even a full 24 hours ago, he wasn’t even  _ here _ .

There are heavy footsteps from down the otherwise quiet street, and while he successfully thwarts being startled, Cyril peers owlishly around him before clearing his throat again, “Hey, Shaxx. Alright, Felwinter, that’s my cue. Just keep that in mind, yeah?” He waits for a nod from Felwinter before tossing him a little wave and turning on his heel, “See you.”

With that, Cyril saunters off, already seemingly conspiring with his Ghost. Felwinter turns to face the owner of the weighted footfalls and manages to tame any outlandish reaction he might’ve otherwise had upon seeing Shaxx again, up close and personal.

Shaxx’s posture is stiff, which throws him off-kilter--has he done something wrong? Is he just barging back into Shaxx’s life unwelcome? Should he turn tail and leave before he gets more uncom--

Shaxx tucks one massive arm around him, then two, and pulls him close. He freezes.

It’s so quiet that it’s loud for a moment, his mind racing a mile a minute, and while Shaxx is still stiffer than he remembers, there’s less tension in his shoulders now. Felwinter slowly, tentatively gets his arms around as much of him as he can, too, if just for a moment.

“It’s you, I can hardly believe it’s you,” Shaxx says, somewhere above his head, and Felwinter still can’t make sense of anything, but this--with his head tucked against Shaxx’s shoulder and his whole frame encompassed in his arms--feels more  _ right _ than anything else has today.

“It’s me,” he replies, trying for snark and landing short. Shaxx doesn’t seem to care with the way he just squeezes Felwinter tighter for a moment before letting go of him, almost--he takes Felwinter’s hand with the care of someone who fears he’s dreaming.

“Please, come in,” Shaxx supplies, nodding to both frames as they pass them, and on their way inside, Felwinter realizes the doorway is actually high enough to let him step through it unhindered. The interior is a far stretch from the proud castle Shaxx once kept, but there are remainders among the new, more modern furnishings. A swatch of fabric here, a sword there; things that are familiar enough to Felwinter and yet far enough removed from where he’d seen them last that it really starts to set in that he’s been presumed  _ dead _ for several centuries.

“Tea? Coffee?” Shaxx calls from somewhere off to the side, and Felwinter comes abruptly back into his body, finding himself just standing in the middle of what appears to be Shaxx’s sitting room. He forces himself to unholster the Lie and set it aside, then to sit at one end of the well-loved sofa and try to center himself, calling back, “Coffee is fine.”

There’s some more bustling from the kitchen, and before long Shaxx emerges with two mugs, noticeably not the massive tankards they’d sipped from back when--

“It’s not quite the same as the brew we used to have, but,” the former Warlord’s voice seems to pick up where his internal thoughts trail off. The couch, impressively, doesn’t shift at all as Shaxx comes to rest next to him, still a respectable distance away, “It gets the job done.”

Shaxx goes to offer a mug to Felwinter, and Felwinter finds himself reaching for it, if only to keep his hands busy, but the larger man pauses, shaking his head, “Right. Helmets,” and the mugs go to the low table in the center of the room, instead.

“Your hands are shaking,” Felwinter says, reaching towards him as Shaxx reaches to remove his one-horned helm (when exactly did that happen?).

“So they are,” Shaxx replies, a hint of a dry laugh in his breath, “Care to do the honors? Been a while since I’ve taken this off with anyone else around.”

It’s a simple thing, mapped to his arms and fingers like a well-lived experience, to beckon Shaxx closer so he can properly reach the latches that hold his helmet in place. When he slides it off with a quiet hiss, any doubt that he had that this was some terrifyingly hopeful dream Rasputin had concocted just to torture him vanishes.

Shaxx sits there, looking much like he did when Felwinter saw him last, the morning before he left for Site 6. There are a few new scars on his face among all the quirks he’d come to admire with clarity, and while he  _ aches _ to think there are probably more, then, elsewhere on his body, seeing him, seeing his singular eye bright and clear--it makes his usually-steady hands shake, too.

He makes himself look away, twisting to set Shaxx’s helmet on the table too, because looking at him like this, all raw, is making him want to do  _ something _ and he’s not sure yet sure  _ what _ . It seems he won’t get a chance to figure it out on his own, though, because when he turns to face Shaxx again, the other man is looking at him expectantly, hands out, palms up. “Fair’s fair,” he says, eye flicking across his own facade, though he makes no move to do anything else until Felwinter echoes him, “Fair’s fair.”

Shaxx’s fingers are steadier than they look when he feels them on the back of his neck, along his jaw. He’s always been so careful when he takes Felwinter’s helm from him, even when they were in a bit of a rush, even when Felwinter wasn’t so careful with him. When he eases it from off his head and sets it aside, Felwinter allows himself a moment to steady himself before looking straight at Shaxx, face on full display.

He had always considered himself inscrutable before he’d met Shaxx, unreadable. He prided himself on his ability to appear unaffected, aloof, collected. If people wanted to see him as heartless, as cold, then so be it--he’d be the detached killer, the lord of the mountain they all wanted him so badly to be. 

Shaxx had cut through all of that with nothing but genuine interest, guts, and charm. 

Utterly foolish of him, really.

Felwinter sees Shaxx set his helmet down in his periphery and then there are gentle, scarred hands at his jaw, familiar. He supposes it makes sense; it’s only been a day or so in his mind since  _ he _ last saw Shaxx. He wonders for a wonder if it still feels even a little familiar for Shaxx.

It’s quiet for a long moment, Shaxx leaning in closer as he cradles Felwinter’s head like he’s afraid he’ll break him if he jostles him too much. Then, nearly a croak as his breath catches, “You’re really here,” a deep breath inwards, “...How? Your Light…”

Felwinter lets himself settle with the question before answering, quiet, letting himself really look at Shaxx now, at the new scars and the old, “I am not certain. What I know is this: Rasputin was involved, and I woke up in a Warmind bunker on the Moon, of all places,” the words come easier now, as Shaxx settles closer to him, now smoothing hands over his own hands, his shoulder, “That Lightbearer, Cyril, he tried to take my gun and I almost killed him for it before I realized I couldn’t summon my Light, before I realized that Felspring is…” he pauses, and Shaxx shifts closer still, as if drawn in by his words or lack thereof, “Felspring is lost. She is not gone, she cannot be.” He flexes his fingers in Shaxx’s loose hold before lacing them through his, “I can still feel it, the Light. I just have no means to access it.”

He realizes he’s just been talking and staring off into space while being held, practically, when Shaxx takes another deep breath, now close enough that Felwinter can feel it and hear it, “If anybody else told me that, I’m not sure I’d believe them without damn good proof.” 

“I am here, aren’t I?” he offers, dry, and Shaxx chuckles against him, replying, “You haven’t changed a bit.”

There’s a quiet moment where Felwinter grasps at the sense of security being surrounded by Shaxx like this used to bring him, and Shaxx seems to be thinking, his good eye surveying Felwinter like one might study a puzzle.

“You have a plan to get her back, I’m assuming,” the larger man mutters, “I don’t think even ‘death’ could take your schemes from you.”

“It’s not a ‘scheme’,” Felwinter insists, resisting the urge to wrap his arms around himself, “But yes. Rasputin’s core resides on Mars, of all places, apparently, so I will be going there to speak with him directly about just why he stole my Ghost.”

Shaxx processes this for a second before leaning back a bit, eyebrows furrowed as much as they can be with all the scar tissue there, a frown tugging at his mouth, “Mars? Even the best and brightest of the Vanguard’s forces avoid that place like the plague. I’ve got a couple of Crucible arenas set up there, and it wasn’t necessarily a pleasant place to be, even for the short time I was there last.”

“I will be going to Mars,” he repeats, and Shaxx’s frown deepens, “That ridiculous Lightbearer already tried to talk me out of it, so don’t bother--”

“Winter,” Shaxx sighs, and he sounds so  _ tired _ all of a sudden that Felwinter quiets himself, “I’m not going to argue with you. Not tonight.”

For once, Felwinter finds that he doesn’t want to argue, either. Instead, he shifts his weight so he can try to get more comfortable--a mean feat when they’re both mostly fully armored, still. 

This doesn’t mean, he knows, that this discussion is anywhere near over. They are, still, after all this time, both unstoppable forces and immovable objects, simultaneously. They are seemingly pulled to one another by some grand overarching cosmic force, if one believes in that kind of thing, which he isn’t sure if he does-- 

“Winter,” Shaxx speaks, and with a start, Felwinter realizes he’s been trying to get his attention, fingers tapping restless at his coat, “Your mind is drifting, I can tell.” His tone is back to fond, and Felwinter allows himself a sigh in confirmation. “Bed?” Shaxx asks, and when Felwinter turns his head again to look at him, a bit incredulous, “I’m not propositioning you, don’t look at me like that. You just look...tired.”

“So do you,” counters Felwinter, and Shaxx’s shoulders droop a bit at the light accusation, “I was sleeping for hundreds of years, when was the last time  _ you _ slept?”

Shaxx’s answering chuckle as he gathers Felwinter up in his arms is not as warm or full as he’d like, “Soundly? It’s been a while. Lots of things on the horizon to keep track of, and you know my vision isn’t the best.”

They get settled in Shaxx’s bed eventually, after Shaxx painstakingly takes each piece of ancient armor off of Felwinter’s frame, muttering that they’ll have to see about getting him some new gear. Felwinter responds by insisting that he take Shaxx’s armor off of him, too, internally marveling at the new materials made into pieces similar to his old gear while externally scoffing at the notion of using anything but what he awoke with.

It’s achingly familiar and yet all at once different, laying with Shaxx with his forehead pressed to his chest. He keeps waiting to hear Shaxx’s breathing even out long after they’ve stopped talking under the guise of at least trying to rest, and the words he hadn’t said yet stick to the inside of his chassis like film. 

He thinks of the last time he saw him in person, laying in bed a lot like this, tender and trusting and confident. He thinks of the last time they spoke, facing his sure end at the viral hands of what was supposed to be their salvation. He thinks--he  _ feels _ those last words he’d uttered to Shaxx, rising up his throat and making his fingers seize. Shaxx is already looking at him, almost expectant, when he sits up, abruptly shrugging out of Shaxx’s loose hold on him and pressing a cool hand to his warm chest.

“Winter?” he coaxes, voice rough from trying to be quiet, going against his nature to try to soothe him, and those unsaid words wrangle his ‘heart’ out of the way and rush up his throat until they fill the space between them.

“I love you.”

It’s quiet for a moment, the way it sounds during snowfall without wind, so quiet it’s loud, and Felwinter forces his shoulders to stay right where they are, forces his eyes to at least stay near Shaxx’s face since he can’t seem to look directly at him right now, the low glow of his auxiliary lights all he needs to see the catch in Shaxx’s breath.

Before he can quite start berating himself for being so foolishly sentimental, Shaxx’s hand reaches up, slow, and when his palm meets the jut of Felwinter’s jaw, his thumb brushes over the corner of his mouth, slow, gentle, doting.

“I love you, too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> annnd we're back to your irregularly scheduled felwinter/shaxx fix! 
> 
> I'm in a spot right now where I've got all the stuff for this arc all planned out, right down to the smallest detail....it's just a matter of writing it all out, and working retail during the holiday season isn't really conducive to getting anything done. at all. Ever. So! Here we are now that I've had a chance to get back on my feet again.
> 
> Where do you think the story is heading next? Only time will tell!
> 
> Thank you as always for reading and for your support!

**Author's Note:**

> And we're back!
> 
> I've got PLANS for this series, and I hope you're all ready to feel things. Enjoy!


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